


Man Eating Soup

by Petra



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Did Our Duty For Archive And Fandom, Intergang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-18
Updated: 2007-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:47:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mafioso who set up the meeting was entirely too happy to do it; Tim Drake must be getting on his nerves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man Eating Soup

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://thete1.livejournal.com/profile)[**thete1**](http://thete1.livejournal.com/), though not in the normal sticky way. Beta read by [](http://brown-betty.livejournal.com/profile)[**brown_betty**](http://brown-betty.livejournal.com/). With love to Nightwing #30 and Action Comics #771.

Tim has checked the exits around the restaurant six times by the time his backup finally shows up, trimmer than he expected. But then, Clark's normal suits would be disrespectfully shoddy for someone in the 'haven's only five-star restaurant, whether he's there as muscle or not.

The man they're both waiting for -- if it's fair to describe him as a man -- hasn't arrived yet.

Clark catches his eye from across the room, over his sunglasses and Tim nods to the maitre d'. Something in his manner evokes Matches Malone -- a swagger in his step, or just the way he holds his head. "Glad you could make it," Tim says as Clark takes his seat.

"Sorry, boss," Clark mutters, and the glance that follows this has to be a quick scan. "'Least I made it here before what's-his-name, huh?"

Kon would be more plausible as the muscle than Clark ever is, but he would be plausible in part because he might easily slip and give them away. If Intergang's deal goes well, the money Oracle's been funneling into it will be a dead loss, changed into titanium and exported to the solar system tonight's what's-his-name is actually from.

Tim frowns at Clark. It would have been easier, from the beginning, if they had involved Wayne Enterprises -- but that would be too high profile, and too close to the truth.

Easier to resurrect a portion of Drake Industries with Oracle's backing and go from there. Tim's biographical data is restricted by Oracle's tracking, in any case. No need for anyone, especially anthropophagic aliens, to understand a tenth of what was going on.

The tendency to snack on Intergang's goons is why Clark's along for this contact. The mafioso who set up the meeting was entirely too happy to do it it; Tim Drake must be getting on his nerves.

"Keep your mouth shut when he gets here, and you'll get paid," Tim says, and spreads his napkin across his knees. The empty cocktail glass in front of him may not be there when the contact arrives, but its overpowering scent of whiskey should be.

Clark nods and unfolds his own napkin with slow, clumsy movements. "Got it."

"And keep an eye on the window over there," Tim says, indicating it with a glance. "If the local do-gooder shows up, he'd better not see my face."

"Don't worry about him," Clark says, and his smile is just crooked enough not to be Clark Kent's. "I'll take care of him."

"You'd damn well better." Tim pokes the cherry left over from the cocktail and glares at the door.

Clark gives him a wink that shouldn't be so obvious behind shades. "I know my job."

The door opens and in comes the somewhat pasty blond man who's the alien's alias, or alter self, whichever way it works, and two of his goons. Tim raises his eyebrow at Clark, who doesn't turn around, but just smiles.

"They're from his hometown."

Three shape-shifters, then.

Good thing he's not out here alone. Tim makes himself relax to the level appropriate for a young businessman meeting clandestinely with the mob. He taps his fingers on the table when the blond guy finally gets sent in the right direction. "You're late," he says.

One of the reasons that Intergang's lost members to this alien is that his smile is backed up by pheromones. It's like spending time around Steph, familiar -- disarming. "Sorry about that, Mister -- Drake, right?"

Tim smiles and stands up to take his hand, relaxing like the affected men on Oracle's footage, but not too much. If he betrays his nose filters, they're going to have much more trouble than he's looking for here. "It's okay."

"We had a little hang-up -- you know how the traffic can be around here." The man and his goons take their seats.

"Sure," Tim says, and a waiter comes over. He orders them all martinis with a smile -- remembering that the aliens are moderately allergic to monounsaturated fats. "So -- how is your family?"

The blond man waves a hand -- not wanting to mention his litter of ten tentacled beasties, probably. The baby pictures would be a nice tension breaker, if he would, but -- no. "They're all quite well. And your -- father?"

A warning bell goes off in Tim's head, and he sees Clark shift in his seat slightly. "He was well, the last time we spoke."

"I'm sure he was." The alien's smile fades slightly. "And your investments?"

Tim has to concentrate to look away from the alien's eyes, nose filters or no -- so he doesn't look away. "The stock market is healthy. I see you're in no mood for small talk."

"I'm a busy man." Alien -- thing.

Tim nods and spreads his hands. "Then -- although it is a shame, you'll miss their canapés if you don't have the time to eat here -- you wanted to speak to me regarding two million dollars, yes?"

His teeth don't look quite right. Too shiny -- too slimy, somehow. "If you're amenable to skipping right to business, then -- yes. We're starting to expand into this city -- and it would be so much easier to do it if we had more comfortable offices. There is so little infrastructure here, and I can't ask my men to work out of cardboard boxes, you know?" He laughs.

Tim laughs, too, only somewhat consciously. He twists his salad fork in his fingers and sets it down with the tines pointing toward the edge of the table, trusting Clark to catch the signal and be on guard. "Oh, understandable. And there will always be a market for upscale offices." He takes out the checkbook and makes out an entirely too real check for entirely too much money.

"It's good to have you on board," the alien says, standing with something of a slither. "But if you excuse me -- I need to -- powder my nose."

Someone more detached than Tim is should give this guy's race tips on the gendering of different phrases. As it is, Tim is standing, too, tugged along by the pheromones. "I -- ah -- might join you."

The alien tucks the check away before he smiles. "Nature calls, yes?"

Tim laughs and heads for the bathroom. There are no exits from back there, but he sees Clark head for the door to outside in his peripheral vision. "When you've gotta go," he says, and it's too crude a phrase for this place, this persona, but it doesn't matter.

The alien catches him around the waist with arms too flexible to be anything but tentacles as soon as they're inside the bathroom, and the shape-shifting is instantaneous.

In any town, a disappearing businessman would draw attention, but not one so obviously gang-affiliated.

In any town but Blüdhaven, on a night when Superman's on the job, Tim would lose more than his shoes to the thing's completely uncharming maw.

The pheromones are clouding his head enough that when he hits the tiled wall, it doesn't hurt, but he stays there until there are bits of not-exactly-calamari all over the place.

Then the goons come in, seeking their dismembered leader. Superman laughs in their bewildered Lovecraftian faces, and it gets messier.

Tim keeps his cover by getting covered with bits of tentacles and goo. "Thank you, Superman," he says, when the stuff stops flying.

His suit is completely wrecked, and his shoes are lost.

The Robin suit is back in Dick's apartment.

Superman gives him a searching look -- making sure he didn't break anything -- and grins at him. "My pleasure, Mr. Drake." He hands over the soggy check. "Perhaps you should look into somewhat more -- savory -- business compatriots."

Tim puts his head in his hands. "Oh, god, I had no idea."

Superman shakes his head. "Checks for ten thousand dollars, Mr. Drake -- I think we should take this to the police."

"No, please --" but it would be ridiculous to struggle when Superman's trying to pick him up, so he gives up.

The alien blood goo proves to be quick-drying but somewhat acidic. Once they're out of the restaurant, Tim says, "Thank you."

Clark squeezes his shoulder. "You got three of them out of hiding. Well done."

Tim shakes his head. "It wasn't my plan. I was just -- there."

Clark chuckles and flies them through the window into Dick's apartment. "In a most useful capacity." He looks out the window. "I should go."

"We can take it from here," Tim says, wiping his hands on his pants to stop the beginning itch from spreading.

"I'll be keeping an ear out," Clark says. "Intergang is nothing to sneeze at."

Tim smiles tightly. "We'll let you know if we need you."

Clark tousles his incredibly sticky hair. "I'm sure. Be careful out there." And he's gone, which means Tim can hit the showers and get the crud out of his hair.


End file.
